


And So It Begins

by Miret



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Archdemons (Dragon Age), F/M, Gen, Grey Wardens, Thedas, Way Old Thedas, head canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-23
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2019-03-23 00:08:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13775517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miret/pseuds/Miret
Summary: This is head canon, purely head canon, I do not own the Dragon Age world, setting or characters, I just get to dabble and move people around therein.Midway through the First Blight.  How it might have been as seen through the eyes of the still squeaky new Grey Wardens





	1. Prologue  -248 Dragon

The Archdemon was dead. Dumat lay dead, surrounded by rotting darkspawn corpses and the bodies of the fallen Anders soldiers who had brought the fiend down; their jubilation matched only by their relief. This incursion, this blight was finally over. So sure were they that they set only a few to watch over the battlefield, though many came out to peer at the still hulk of the dragon. Demon. Some spat at the dread bulk, a final act of defiance to a thing unable to appreciate the gesture but it still gave the soldiers a sense of satisfaction. They had downed the foe that had harried generations. Nearly one hundred and fifty years the once Old God of the Tevinters had led the corrupted darkspawn in attacks that had taken a toll of every corner of the Imperium, on lands even outside the Imperium’s vast reach. 

The soldiers had come upon the Darkspawn horde and its leader near the foothills of the Hunterhorn mountains, falling on them as Dumat and his horde fled the pursuing Gray Wardens. It had been sheer luck that the Anders had been able to pull together an ambush. They had lost a great many of their bravest (and unluckiest, truth to be told)in the attack but it was the end result that counted most, or so said those left standing at the end of the day. The bodies of their fallen had been gathered together, their names scribed carefully so that the families could know the sacrifice that had been made to keep them - and Thedas- safe. The reek of smoke still hung heavy in the air, and the chanting of some ragged band of priests who made prayers to Gods who may or may not have been listening. Not, was the thought of most; for if the Gods did listen, then why did they let loose so vile a punishment, unstopped and for a long time it had seemed unstoppable.

But it -had- been stopped! And by men of skill and courage; not those odd fanatics who rode griffons, who styled themselves Wardens. But it did not do to disparage them, the Gray Wardens. They had been instrumental after all in fighting and tracking the Darkspawn, and without their attacks on the horde, Dumat and his underlings might never have been placed in the position they had been in, a position that had allowed this end to finally take place.

The lookouts - they had posted them after all, just in case some darkspawn were still about - were alert enough to take note of the small party of weary looking riders. Hardened looking men wearing armor that had clearly seen much use; their horses clopped along, heads hanging as they plodded along. 

“Ho the camp!” A deep voice called out, one that bore a familiar accent, an Anders-born fellow, the tall, rawboned looking man in the lead and as they drew closer, within the circle of torchlight, the saw the sigil on the breastplate, the same sigil that was tooled into the skirt of the saddle, the double griffons that marked the Gray Wardens that they had heard so much about. Some had even fought alongside them in the past.

“Shit,” one of the lookout spat to one side. “Here the battle is done and they -finally- show up,” he sounded disgusted but kept his voice pitched low enough that most of the riders heard nothing beyond a mumble. 

Or maybe they simply didn’t understand him. They were a mix of ‘types’. A swarthy, fineboned Tevinter who despite weariness sat in the saddle as though it were a throne; a fairskinned Alamarri tribesman and even a dwarf. In the center of the group were a pair of elves; a man and a woman. She bore a staff topped with a crystal that gave off sullen flickers of a blue-white light, and he had a bow in one hand, no arrow on the string- yet- but both were wary. They all were; with naked blades laid across their knees as they rode.

Without answering the lookouts they glanced at the remains of the battlefield, saddle leather creaking and a faint chink of ring mail as they turned to confer with each other in low voices. Dead. And yet they could still hear.. Or feel.. That song tugging at them; faint for all but the oldest of them; to him it was an insistent murmur that made concentration difficult at times of rest

The lookouts watched and nudged each other, grinning. They had succeeded where the Wardens had not. Ever since that day years before when the previously unheard of Wardens had swooped in on their griffons to break the siege at Nordbotten everyone had put their hopes on that put-together group who claimed no flag, swore loyalty to no nation and had no unity beyond that which brought them together to fight the Darkspawn. Rumor had it that they indulged in some bloody ritual that bound them to their singular self-proclaimed purpose. Rumor some said, just rumor borne out of jealousy for their prowess in battle. 

“You’re welcome to join us in celebration.” One of the lookouts invited; it didn’t hurt to be generous. He wasn’t sure they’d accept the offer though, so still they were as they looked over the battlefield, as if they were counting the dead -darkspawn and human both.

“Thank you,” the leader said finally after clearing his throat. “But we need be going. Be watchful, there are still Darkspawn about.” He warned then nudged the weary horse into motion, the others following in his wake, gray shadows in the darkness as they melted out of sight.

“Shit” one man spat again then shrugged and turned to look at the thrown together tents; they would be relieved soon. It would be their turn to take a share in the meat and mead waiting, to add their voices to the boasting.

The boasting did not last long; not even a week after Dumat’s demise came word that the Archdemon had been spotted again some leagues from the field where the bones were glowing still after having been set alight with the heap of darkspawn dead. Disbelief had been chief among the emotions from those who had thought themselves the victors, then anger. And then another wash of disbelief as the speculation from the Warden Scholars made its rounds; the Archdemon was.. Had been.. A God afterall, and what mere mortal could easily kill a God? The sense of jubilation turned into black despair. If that were true, then there was no hope; no hope for their world at all. Some said that they might as well give themselves to the Darkspawn - hordes had begun to rebound after all - and end the futile fight.

Others still felt there was more to it. It could not be so dire, so black and white; and even as the Wardens pushed again to face off against the renewed Horde with its triumphant Archdemon they worked to figure out the why to it.

“It’s like this,” an intense young Tevinter mage said, his hands long and graceful and always in motion as he spoke, trying to express it to those who listened, stone faced. “When some poor fool calls upon a spirit, a demon possesses his body it does so utterly,” he paused and glanced around at the faces of the listeners. “Destroying the soul, then when you kill the body you banish or kill the demons sould.. Well.. If the Archdemon .. If on his death he casts about and possesses the body of nearby darkspawn,” he spread out his hands, palms up and fingers splayed “they have no soul. So he is essentially reborn. The soul of a God encased in body that he can manipulate.”

“That doesn’t explain why the demon soul doesn’t try and take the body of the one who slew him. It.” A querulous voice objected.

“It does if the Demons soul is looking for something familiar, the taint of the Darkspawn. It would explain why it rushes to inhabit a darkspawn and not the body of a human.

“Exactly!” the young Tevene clapped his hands together and pointed to the woman who had spoken last. “So if it were one of you, one of you Wardens to strike a killing blow, then the Demons soul would be drawn to.. To you.”

“So you’re saying that we’d be possessed?” Distaste and fear were palpable in the young warriors tone. He was but newly come to the Wardens, still learning to deal with the changes that the Joining had wrought in him.

“No, I think that the paradox of two souls in the same body would destroy them.”

“Both..?” there was a profound silence as the implications were made clear.

“Well then,” a chair scraped and a battlescarred old veteran rose, his hands on the table in front of him. “It sounds like we know what we need to do.”


	2. -200 Ancient

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introducing the main characters for this little foray into ancient Thedas.  
> Avairn - senior warden in the small party  
> Madin- warden and dwarf, braving the open sky  
> Anthin a Warden born and bred in Tevinter, deadly with daggers that may or may not be poisoned.  
> Sythas - Elven mage with more than a little gift for Healing, a Senior Warden  
> Terril - A quiet, scarred Alamarri tribesman, warden  
> Maraisa - elven servant/apprentice, soon to be warden?

It stood out in a stark line with a riverbed making the line of demarcation. On one side of the river it was green and lush- well in comparison to the dusty, rock and cracked mud of the other side of the river. The river was broad and in far gone better days had been well traveled with small villages, towns and even cities nestling close. Now the water ran cool and deep, but here and there were signs of the constant struggle. Corpses caught up in a net of branches at a bend of the river; some darkspawn some human. And long left to rot where they were caught, rendering the lands near that part of the river inhospitable.

“Is that a village up ahead?” One of the men on horseback shaded his eyes and squinted across the river at the smudge of smoke on the near horizon. 

“Map says the nearest village is still half a day north,” a laconic voice answered, “but there’s a note here, says a Tevinter Lordling has his holdings here. Might be we can stop for the night.” Hope brightened his tone and made him sit up a bit straighter. They had been on travel rations for over a fortnight at that point, out of Weisshaupt and tracking rumors of the archdemon’s presence. Dumat had been canny indeed, going to ground (or underground some thought) for the last fifteen years, showing up unexpectedly and always at the forefront of a horde that razed another city, another village.

“Thank the map nicely then, put it away and let’s find a place to ford the river. The thought of being inside walls tonight is a good one.” Their leader Avairn said with a faint smile. It was hard to tell when he was smiling truth to tell; he’d been injured in a fight two years back, and for a while they’d thought that the wounds he took would claim him but he’d recovered; the worst of it the scar on his face that ran from just under his left eye then crosswise to the right side of his jaw. It made his smile a twisted and frightening thing; something he was aware of and so gained a reputation as someone grim to those outside the Wardens.

Finding a spot to ford the river was easier said than done, and it was after midday when the last of the horses sloshed out of the water, well downriver of where they had been when they spotted to keep. “Well we can consider it a brisk pre-dinner bit of exercise.” One of their number said; young-ish, he had the look of someone who had been raised in comfort though he rode and fought as hard as any of the others in the small band.

“Your optimism is refreshing,” Madin grunted; the dwarf was the polar opposite of Anthin, swarthy to his fair skin, the ruddy, grizzled hair an affront to Anthin’s well groomed, dark sleekness. Inseparable in battle and its aftermath, the pair had become close friends over the the last year since the young Tevinter’s Joining.

“One of us has to be,” the young man shrugged and stood in the stirrups, looking ahead at the tangle of woods that surrounded the keep. “It looks.. Unkempt.” He managed to sound disapproving.

“Looks like the Darkspawn haven’t yet found their way here,” Avairn put in as he nudged his horse into motion. They were all tired, men and beasts and he wanted little more at that moment than to get them all under cover, fed and rested. Who knew when the next battle would be found?

“Can’t sense any close by,” Sythas said as she rode in close. An elf from one of the wilderness loving clans, the tattoos stood out stark on her pale face, but they’d all got used to them and they were simply .. Sythas. She was mage and Healer for their small group, and aside from Avairn one of the more senior wardens. She was also the most sensitive to the presence of darkspawn.

Avairn nodded and without another comment they spurred their horses on, closing the distance between them and the Keep, arriving at the sturdy gates as the sun dipped below the horizon, staining the land around them a bronze-gold. The gates were guarded. Well, manned at least, though it was a timid looking youth peering over the top of the palisade to eye the armed party.

“We seek shelter for the night,” Avairn called up, his tone mild and masking the irritable weariness that dogged them all. It had been far too long since they’d had the benefit of even the rough comfort of being inside walls.

The boy nodded and his voice - cracking on the edge of breaking - drifted to them, “M’lord says be welcome, if you’ve no ill intent, and he’d be glad of a word if you’re Them. Wardens.” 

So they’d been watched, hmm? Had they simply been seen from a distance or did the Keeps’ lord have watchers stationed along the river? Avairn gave a single nod. “We’d be most glad to speak to your Lord, and even gladder for the boon of a place to rest.”

The gate creaked and slowly swung open, revealing men - farmers from the look- armed with crossbows though there were no bolts to the string, all stepping back to make way for the armed party.

As villages went it was small and most logically arranged. The whole of it was surrounded by the rough looking log and mud walls that had been reinforced from within by stone walls built head-high with small towers to house look outs at each corner and mid-way through. Efficient. And it showed some sign of foresight and care at least. And it was wholly unexpected.

The buildings inside the walls were simple enough; rough thatch and squat, square buildings of stone and timber. “Very businesslike,” Madin approved as they rode up the single paved road, the sound of the horses hooves loud on the cobbles. They passed an inn, the smell of smoke and food drifting out the open door, and Madin cast a longing look at the patch of golden light.

“Later,” Avairn murmured, “let us greet our host first then see if you can slip away to inspect the ale.”

“More interested in roast goose, or whatever that was I was smelling.” Madin grunted.

“They’re clearing out,” Sythas breathed as they rode past the inn. Behind the building were wagons being loaded. Not just one or two, but it looked like they had all the farm carts and wagons pressed into service, bags of grain, barrels that held preserved food (and probably ale, too) and packs and trunks as well. Those who were loading the carts and wagons spared a look for the Wardens though they hardly paused. There wasn’t the rush of panic, but a methodical, workmanlike pace had been set.

“Indeed they are,” Avairn agreed, compressing his lips briefly. It made sense, with the signs of the darkspawn just across the river but where would they go? And the whole village? That seemed.. Odd.

“Welcome Wardens,” a voice, a young woman’s voice greeted them, the figure itself still part of the shadows though others came out, servants bearing torches that were fixed into the rings before they stepped forward. “Welcome, M’lord bids you to come in and join him at table,” the young woman stepped forward. Slender and not overtall, her dark hair was pulled away from a narrow face, showing high cheekbones and green-gold eyes and the upswept ears of an elf. So a superior servant? Huh..

The grooms stepped up then and took the bridles as one at a time the wardens dismounted with the creak of leather- and Avairn thought the creak of bones and muscles grown stiff. 

“The horses will be well cared for,” the girl promised, “fed and groomed and bedded down with Milords own beasts.” Which meant in a stable instead of an open paddock, Avairn hoped.

“You have our thanks,” he retrieved his saddlebags then let one of the servants lead away his horse. “I am Warden Commander Avairn, out of Weisshaupt, these are Sythas, Madin, Anthin and Terril.” He introduced the rest of their number as they dismounted, some stiffer than others but all road weary.

“I am Maraisa,” she smiled faintly and took up a small lantern the light flickering into being as she lifted it. “There are rooms and baths prepared for you, should you wish to refresh yourselves before dinner.”

“Mage,” Sythas mouthed the word to Avairn as they followed their guide. He only nodded. Mage and not afraid of letting that be known, so a protected kind of servant? 

Maraisa led them past a half-lit hall where they see the shadows of furnishings, then up a broad stone stair that let out onto a hall lined with doors at irregular intervals. Five stood open and she gestured with the lantern. “I will return shortly to take you to Milord,” she was apparently letting them choose from those rooms standing open, nor did she linger to watch.

Sythas and Avairn took the first room, the elven woman eying the tub that stood steaming in front of the hearth with an avid hunger. Avairn laughed, “go first, or better yet, you take this one and I’ll use one of the others and come back to join you.” 

They had been together for the last five years, not making any grand declarations just simply together. It was not unusual for wardens to form such attachments, and it brought some stability to their group.

He could hear the talk from the other rooms- the doors left half open - as Madin called insults to Anthin and had them returned. Terril was silent - he spoke only rarely and then in the fewest possible words. Scarred inside and out, the man had been found in the remains of a burnt out village some ten years past. No one had expected him to live. He did. No one had been surprised when he presented himself to the Wardens and insisted on taking the Joining. No one had expected him to survive it. But he did. He was one of the fiercest fighters Avairn had ever seen, and he wondered how much of that ferocity was due to the completely focus and silence. 

It was a puzzle he viewed often but had never found any satisfactory answer. And likely never would. “Leave it, it is part of him,” Sythas had said more than once. She had been one of those who had found Terril, had treated his injuries and sat with him those first few nights as his body fought its own battle. And she was rarely wrong, Avairn had to admit to himself as he shucked the dusty, creased and reeking clothes he’d worn the last few days, ignoring the stiffened spots where blood had dried. His or an enemies. Did it matter?

He groaned sinking into the warm and.. He cupped a hand and brought it up near his face, sniffing suspiciously - scented, definitely scented water. Ah well, wet was wet and it got him clean. For certain though it marked their host as one of those types concerned with appearances - visual and otherwise. It was unfortunate that his clothes couldn’t - wouldn’t- match the delicately scented water. Damp and swathed in a towel he made his way back to the room he and Sythas had chosen, to find her still lolling in the bath, her head back against the raised edge padded with a towel, her hair knotted into some odd turban made up of another towel- the kind of thing women seemed born knowing how to do - and a look approaching bliss on her narrow features.

“Or we could just stay here,” she murmured without opening her eyes, for all the world as if she were continuing an ongoing conversation.

“Sure, sure we could,” he agreed as he nudged the door closed then rooted through his pack for clothes. “Where are…”

“On the bed,” one dripping hand rose to point, “I laid our clothes out before I got into the bath. Terril stopped in right after you left and said he would take the armor tonight and clean it. All of it.” That was his way of getting out of the dreaded and expected social situation. Terril did not link mingling with people outside of their own small band.

Avairn grunted and turned to the bed to examine the clothes she had laid out. They didn’t have a great deal by way of spares and.. “Where did -this- come from?!” ‘this’ being the fine dress tunic and trews that he swore he’d left back at Weisshaupt, he had precious little use for the finery and on the road they’d not need them.

“I brought them,” he heard the slosh of water as she stood then stepped out of the tub and he turned. For a small woman she gave the impression of being taller, not near so much though when she stood clad only in a towel and a half smile.

“I should have guessed,” he mock growled, grateful actually that she had. The rough raime and linen tunic he wore under his armor was stiff with sweat and dirt, and the spare that he had in saddlebags was only marginally better, and the leather breeches had had were patched and knappy at the knees, not really the impression he wanted to give of the Order when meeting someone that he hoped to obtain supplies from. Still he sighed as he pulled the softer linen tunic over his head and stepped into the finely woven trousers. His boots, well, they’d have to do with having the worst of the mud and grime brushed off, and he sat down near the hearth to do that, peering over at Sythas as she sat on the edge of the bed, combing then braiding the thick fall of dark brown hair. In the firelight there were glints of gold and deep red. Just like those times under a warm sun.

“You’re staring.” She said in a tone that let Avairn know she was not only amused, but likely she’d repeated herself. At least once. And she was dressed besides, the deep blue, knee length tunic and dark trews looked -good- on her. A silvery belt linked loosely at her hips - it was not just for show but held a small dagger of elven make and a belt pouch.

“Right, right, let’s get this going then,” he grumbled and with a grimace donned the ankle high boots; they were soft and worthless for anything but looking pretty; and again it was something that suited her much better than it did him. But it was a small enough price to pay, he decided as he reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze before bringing it up to her lips. “Shall we?” Her smile went right to his heart. If there was any reward for the life he’d found himself in she was it. 

“They’re doing it again,” Anthin groaned to Madin who ignored him. Bathed and in clean clothing, the dwarf had even gone so far as to rebraid his beard, affixing a few hammered silver ornaments into the ends.

“Dressy,” Sythas approved, also ignoring Anthin’s antics though there was no malice on either side. It was a quiet show of affection.

The Hall they were led to was lit with torches in rings on the walls, and small glass lanterns on the tables. Candles, not the oil lamps of more affluent areas, it still offered a sense of formality; as did the hangings on the walls. On closer inspection they were worn and much mended, the colors faded with time and exposure but still impressive in their own way.

Their host was there too, seated at the long table closest to the hearth, the chair a massive, heavy carved chair of a dark wood that made the man sitting in it look old and frail by contrast. He was thin, stringy really with age, but his dark eyes held a lively wit and his voice was surprisingly firm. Young sounding even as he greeted them by name, the young elf at his side.

“Mara here says that you wish shelter for the night. I can happily offer more than that, and news of what goes here as well as accepting what news you can give me of the goings-on outside these walls.” He gestured for them to sit, then nodded. “One of your number did not wish to avail himself of my hospitality?” He sounded curious not angered.

“Terril is uncomfortable in company,” Sythas said quietly. “He wished to remain behind and take care of the gear and horses.”

The old man waved a hand cutting off the rest of the explanation. “Not needed but I do understand, Mara, see that he has food and drink,” he commanded with an offhand kind of authority, a built in arrogance that came of a lifetime of privilege. He waited until the girl had nodded then left quietly before speaking again. 

“My people here are readying to leave, with my blessing I might add,” as if it was needed? “They seek some safer place and I am told that if they can make it to Minrathous there is safety there. My son will give them protection and guidance.” That did not sound quite so certain, but his guests did not question him. Yet.

“Mara though, she refuses to leave,” he shifted in the chair and it seemed to Sythas that the movement came with great care and pain. “Fool girl thinks that she needs to remain.” He snorted but there was affection there.

“Can you not order her like the other servants?” Anthin asked in the offhand way that those used to such choices had. 

“Servant?” The old man laughed a wheezy, rasping exhalation. “My boy she’s no more servant to me than you are to him,” a crooked finger jabbed at Avairn. “She is.. No she -was- my apprentice, she is as well versed in magic as your companion there, as I am. Was,” he sighed and leaned back into the chairs embrace. “She’s been with me since she was very small, more child to me than the son my wife bore. And as obedient as he is.” He rested his hands on the armrests then pulled himself upright. “I ask only one thing in exchange for the hospitality of this Hall. Take her with you when you go. I will not live much longer and she refuses to see that, refuses to leave,” he scowled but it was concern not irritation that marked his features, his voice. “I have heard that you Wardens use mages, that she would be safe as one of you. Take her.”

They were all surprised at the insistence. Others had asked to join the Wardens, and most had been dissuaded when they heard the realities, such a grim difference from the romance of the tales that spread about them. 

“We will offer her the choice,” Sythas said before any of the men could gather wit enough to speak. “But we cannot force it on her.” Though they had all heard too, how some -were- forced. Conscripted, though initially that right of Conscription was one that had been used when a candidate had been refused by a parent- or master. But rarely to take in the unwilling, and from what this man said his apprentice could be less than willing to leave.

The old man waved a hand, “Offer it, I will see that she takes you up on it.”

“Not all who Join survive…” Avairn found his tongue finally.

“Pah, I know, I know the risks and she will know them too. But if you offer it, she will take it.” He said with unshakable certainty.

Sythas leaned and touched the back of Avairn’s hand and he stilled then looked at her before nodding once, looking reluctant still. “If she accepts, we can offer her the Cup this night.” Avairn said as he turned his hand, taking Sythas’ in his own as the object of their conversation returned, followed by servants bringing the meal in.

Simple but hearty fare, while the Lord of the Keep kept to a certain style that did not extend to the food. It was plentiful and well cooked, well spiced but not the fancy dishes that had perhaps once graced the table in that hall. Roasted beef, bread, roasted vegetables and a thick soup, with cider, cool and sweet to wash it all down and afterwards a simple sweet of stewed fruit.

He made no apologies for the fare, and he himself ate little. A bit of bread, a taste of the soup and the fruit but insisted that everyone else make a hearty meal, gently chastising Mara when she made to remove herself from the group. “Eat, you order me to do so often enough, now it is my turn.” He said with a certain satisfaction. 

Sythas asked quiet and gentle questions of the girl throughout the meal, learning just where her studies had led,trying in her quiet way to gauge if she was indeed worthy to attempt the Joining. Midway through the meal she glanced across at Avairn, the nod faint, a sadness in her eyes as she indicated that yes, yes the girl stood a good chance at surviving what would be offered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more to come, soon, I hope. Please feel free to leave (constructive!) comments.

**Author's Note:**

> this was written in bits and chunks, please forgive any funky formatting or nasty errors in spelling/grammar. Lore has been lifted from the books, wiki's, interviews and conjured from the fade as needed. Please enjoy, constructive comments are always welcome. Next chapter will be up.. soon. possibly.


End file.
